


indelible

by greased_lightning_rod



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abuse of glitter, Crack Treated Seriously, First Kiss, First Time, Getting Together, Light Bondage, Love Confessions, M/M, Other, Requited Pining, What is tonal consistency, Wing Kink, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 20:36:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20014447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greased_lightning_rod/pseuds/greased_lightning_rod
Summary: Crowley hiccups. It turns into a burp. “Angel,” he repeats, and if it sounds soppy, well, what do you expect. Crowley is three winds—sheets—anyway he’s shitfaced. It’s not like Aziraphale doesn’tknowCrowley’s in love with him. It’s not like it’s asecret. It’s not like Crowley hasn’t lived with the mortification of being known down to the moleculeevery day for six thousand years.Why is he here again? Oh yes.“I need your help.”*It turns out glitter is miracle-proof and, also, that it itches. Crowley needs some help preening. He gets a bit more than he bargained for.





	indelible

**Author's Note:**

> What is tonal consistency? Not present in this fic, that's what.
> 
> With thanks to [catrinella](http://catrinella.tumblr.com) for some quick feedback. Otherwise unbetaed. 
> 
> This story began as crack on Tumblr. The OG post is [here](https://aziraphallist.tumblr.com/post/186529722491/when-crowley-knocks-on-the-bookshop-door-two-weeks). I'm [aziraphallist](http://aziraphallist.tumblr.com) over there if anyone wants to come say hi. Thank you to the many Tumblr users who reblogged, replied, or otherwise encouraged this silliness: you made me feel welcome. <3

When Crowley knocks on the bookshop door two weeks into the new world—well. Actually he more or less knocks _into_ it. It’s late, or early depending on your definition, and Crowley is… sauced. Snookered. Bambuzz—bombi—he’s drunk.

“Op’n’up, angel!” This time when he tries to knock he manages to make contact between his hand and the door. Progress. “”S’me!”

It takes a few moments, which Crowley doesn’t bother worrying about. Point A, he is drunk and currently far beyond worry. Point two, B, whatever, Aziraphale doesn’t sleep. And point the third—oh bless it—Crowley can _feel_ him in there, being all… whatever holy is when you’re Aziraphale instead of a proper Heavenly angel. _Good_ , perhaps. Feels all warm and bright and _pleasant_. Awful. It tingles.

Eventually there are footsteps and Aziraphale appears, dressed in pajamas that were the height of fashion when Clement Clarke Moore wrote _Denslow’s Night Before Christmas_ , complete with nightcap and a tartan dressing gown, despite the fact that it is not yet September. He looks _soft_. Crowley wants to touch him.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaims. And then he takes a step backward. “My goodness. You’ve had a busy evening, I think.”

Crowley hiccups. It turns into a burp. “Angel,” he repeats, and if it sounds _soppy_ , well, what do you expect. Crowley is three winds—sheets—anyway he’s shitfaced. It’s not like Aziraphale doesn’t _know_ Crowley’s in love with him. It’s not like it’s a _secret_. It’s not like Crowley hasn’t lived with the mortification of being known down to the molecule _every day for six thousand years_.

Why is he here again? Oh yes.

“I need your help.” Without waiting for Aziraphale to step aside or motion him in, Crowley sashays—okay, stumbles—across the threshold.

Aziraphale shakes himself and closes the door behind him. “Of course. I—with something in particular?”

Crowley slithers the rest of the way to the sofa and collapses on it, face first. He can feel them _itching_. It’s _terrible_. _Why_ does this always happen with his very best inventions? “’S’easier ‘f I jussss’ show you,” he says miserably, because while he doesn’t have a lot of shame left, this is still embarrassing.

But there’s nothing for it. He can’t miracle the damn stuff away, and he’ll never have a moment’s peace if he doesn’t get rid of it somehow. A shower took care of most of it, but not the important bits. And it’s not like he can just whip his wings out somewhere and have just _anyone_ help him.

There’s a _whoosh_ and a pressure change as previously empty air finds itself suddenly occupied by a massive pair of things with feathers.

“Oh!” Aziraphale says excitedly, taking a step closer. “I say, Crowley, that is rather fetching. I do like the colors. Have you decided to abandon your monochrome wardrobe? Black has always suited you, of course—”

“Nnng,” says Crowley. It’s not _fair_ ; he can barely handle Aziraphale’s backwards compliments when he’s sober, let alone when he’s blitzed (yes! That’s the word!) with _glitter_ in his feathers. “I need help getting off. Getting _it off_ ,” he corrects, and, blast it, maybe he should sober up. Except it’s been such a pleasant drunk night, almost like old times except with significantly less guilt and existential dread. Everyone at the party was too high to suspect his wings were real, and he was very much enjoying promoting all manner of sin with absolutely no personal stake in the matter until someone poured glitter down from the second story.

If there’s a moral here somewhere, Crowley’s going to be extremely annoyed.

“Can’t you simply miracle it away?” Aziraphale asks. He’s a step or two closer now; Crowley can sense the _goodness_ of him radiating against his primaries. He fights the urge to flex, just to feel him that much closer.

“Nnn,” says Crowley again. “Infernal stuff. ‘Nvented it meself. Miracle-proof.”

“Really!” says Aziraphale as if this is the most interesting thing he has ever heard. “I daresay that might be quite useful, next time around.”

Aziraphale wants to fight the armies of Heaven and Hell with glitter, Crowley thinks. Well, of course he does. He’ll probably win too, the bastard. “Zzzziraphale. Can we focus.”

“Right.” He’s all business now. “I suppose you’d best come upstairs.”

Crowley, for once in his very long life, does what he’s told without question, largely because if he starts questioning why he needs to go upstairs his brain will derail spectacularly with a lot of casualties, namely what’s left of his dignity. He’s a six-thousand-something-year-old demon who’s been pining for his Heavenly counterpart for nearly as long; wearing skinny jeans and a crop top with the word _THOT_ picked out in [pink sequins, also covered with glitter.](https://sunshineandchemistry.tumblr.com/post/186799755079/hes-a-six-thousand-something-year-old-demon-whos) There’s glitter in his hair. There’s glitter under his fingernails. There’s glitter—just, use your imagination.

In the moments walking up the stairs Crowley has very specific regrets. Inventing this infernal material is near the top of the list. Also noteworthy, falling in love with a fussy, bossy angel who’s never tacitly acknowledged Crowley’s feelings. The current number one, though, owes to the fact that he made an Effort for this damn party. He’s not working for Downstairs anymore, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy a spot of temptation now and again for nostalgia’s sake, and the Effort is key to the whole look. And so right now Crowley is walking up the very steep stairs to Aziraphale’s flat with an Effort being strangled by glitter-infested skinny jeans.

Crowley is going to sleep for at least a week once he’s glitter-free again. And then he’ll avoid Aziraphale for a few months for good measure, to restore the illusion of his dignity.

Well, he amends, all right. Maybe just two weeks.

“I think,” Aziraphale says, coming up behind him, “you might as well lie on the bed and spread them out while I collect a few supplies. Make yourself comfortable. This may take some time.”

Crowley does not discorporate on the spot, but only because he’s firmly put his brain in Neutral and slaved the controls over to Aziraphale, and thus is incapable of original thought. This is important for his survival. He can have a year’s worth of wanks once the glitter is gone.

Aziraphale’s bed is a sturdy old-fashioned four-poster that invites one to participate in an energetic quality test, covered in a soft, dusty tartan bedspread that whispers reassuringly that no one has ever RSVPed. A few good flaps take care of the worst of the dust, or at least send it swirling around the room. Crowley sneezes, and then sways, and then thinks _fuck it_ and lets himself fall face-first onto the bed, toeing off his shoes as he goes. His glasses mash uncomfortably against his nose, but he doesn’t care.

Autopilot disengages.

 _No_ , Crowley tells his hindbrain firmly. _This is not the time._

 _We’re in hisssss bed_ , his hindbrain replies, followed by a litany of suggestions for things they could do here, severally or jointly.

The hindbrain has an excellent point. However—

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale says, returning sooner than expected. Crowley lifts his head from the mattress and the room tilts disorientingly, then spins some more when Aziraphale taps the bare skin of Crowley’s ankle. “Make some room, would you please? I can already see we’ve work ahead of us. Might as well get comfortable.”

Fortunately Crowley’s sozzled brain, instead of shutting down at the idea of Aziraphale blatantly, if euphemistically, telling him to spread his legs, frantically smashes the Autopilot button again. Aziraphale kneels up on the bed, setting a bag of supplies next to Crowley’s shoulder.

“’S’all thissss?” Oh, bless it, that’s too many s’s.

“Supplies, of course,” Aziraphale replies primly. “I can’t think how I’d manage without them. Warm washcloths, mostly, though I think, well, I’ve a fine comb or two as well. We may need to get creative. I’ve never had to groom out glitter before.” He runs a gentle hand from Crowley’s left scapulars to his median coverts and Crowley forgets he’s a vertebrate and tries to become one with the mattress.

Oh G—oh Sat— _Someone_ , he is far too drunk for this. But Someone knows he wouldn’t survive it sober.

“You’re sure you want it out?” Aziraphale asks. “Only it is rather nice. Reminds me of those stars you’re always going on about.”

“Ngk,” Crowley says. It’s one thing for Aziraphale to see him like this, drunk and glistering, and quite another to have himself compared to the stars he put in the sky while Aziraphale kneels between his legs. Suddenly he’s not nearly drunk enough.

Aziraphale must take his noise for affirmation, though, because he reaches for the washcloth, tutting. “Well, all right. If you insist.”

There’s a long moment of nothing, or it feels that way to Crowley, who’s clinging fervently to the tartan bedspread lest he fall off it. And then Aziraphale traces the top of his wing again, more firmly this time, curls his fingers around Crowley’s pollex to brace it. “You’ll let me know if I’m being too rough,” he says, and it’s a command rather than a question.

Crowley swallows and jerks his head yes, biting his tongue around the hundred other answers he’d like to give. He’s out of practice biting his tongue; he’s been saving his words and feeding lines to poets since Shakespeare’s time.

The cloth is as warm as Aziraphale promised, and scented very faintly with a mild diluted soap. Lavender and honey, Crowley thinks, closing his eyes. It’s nice. Aziraphale is nice. The soft, gentle sweeps of the cloth on Crowley’s wings are nice.

Crowley is not nice. Crowley is thinking all kinds of not-very-nice things Aziraphale could do to him right now.

Crowley is not soft either. But he’s taking advantage enough as it is, so he keeps his mouth clamped shut and focuses on the drag of the cloth over his left wing, always with the grain, repetitive and predictable, starting close to the center of his back at his scapulars and inching gradually toward the wingtip with each stroke.

“It’s working, mostly,” Aziraphale tells him after a moment, pausing to put the cloth down and reaching for a fine comb instead. Crowley opens his eyes long enough to see a mother-of-pearl handle, something silver and fussy. He wonders how long it’s been since anyone groomed Aziraphale. He wonders if Aziraphale will ever ask him.

Oh Go—Sat— _Someone_ damn it, he’s reached the pining phase of ineb—inbibr—drunkenness at exactly the wrong time.

Fortunately Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice, so he doesn’t have the chance to tut reprovingly. He slots the comb carefully against Crowley’s shoulder blade before dragging it down and completely ignores Crowley’s shudder. “Whatever were you doing to get in such a state?”

“I’zzatta party. Couple streets over.” Crowley gestures with his right arm, which barely feels as though it’s attached. When he sets it down again it knocks his glasses half askew. Sod it, he thinks, and tosses them side. “Old sake times.” No, that’s not right. He frowns, trying to disentangle the words. To Heaven with it. “Temptations, you know. Missed it a bit.”

Aziraphale pauses with the comb between Crowley’s primary and secondary coverts. “A temptation?” he says, and even sloshed Crowley can hear him filtering the judgment from his tone. “I thought we were on _our_ side.”

Oh, now he sounds _hurt_. Crowley rustles his wings involuntarily, and Aziraphale quickly withdraws the comb so as not to stab him. “Not… s’not that kind’f temptation, angel.” He makes himself breathe, makes himself imagine it sobers him up just a little. “S’just nice, sometimes, to be….”

Aziraphale doesn’t suggest an end to the sentence. He does resume grooming Crowley’s wings, though, even more gently than before. “To be…?” he prompts when Crowley doesn’t finish.

“Looked at,” Crowley mumbles against his own will, his cheeks flushing. Must be the drink. “’Thout being… sssseen.” He’s given up hope of Aziraphale looking at him like that. But Aziraphale does see him, and while that’s exhausting, most days it takes the sting out.

Aziraphale sets the comb down in favor of using his fingers to smooth a section of Crowley’s coverts. It tingles, warm and bright, just the way Aziraphale’s presence feels, with a little electric zip. It might, potentially, also be called _nice_. Except that its effects are rather naughty.

“Vanity,” Aziraphale tsks, but his touch is soft and so is his voice. It almost sounds like a compliment.

“Mmmn,” Crowley acknowledges, trying not to move too much lest Aziraphale remove his hand.

“You know,” Aziraphale says after another moment of idle stroking, during which Crowley genuinely wonders whether he’s slipped into Heaven, or perhaps Hell, “I don’t think these are quite the correct tools. They’ve gotten the majority of it, but I think something else might be more effective. Do you mind…?”

Half-relieved, half-disappointed, Crowley ruffles his feathers again, stretching. His left wing does feel much better, but there’s still a long way to go. “Whatever you like, angel,” he says in a voice like thirsty gravel, and then wishes he’d said anything else.

“Thank you.” As though Crowley is the one doing Aziraphale a favor!

Crowley opens his eyes long enough to see Aziraphale don a pair of strangely fluffy-looking gloves. He’d better not have to have Thoughts about those later. That would be beyond embarrassing.

“All right, now,” Aziraphale says, gripping Crowley by his pollex again. “Let’s see.”

The glove is softer and drier than the cloth, and it doesn’t prickle like the comb or tingle like his bare fingers. It’s got a different kind of warmth, and Crowley’s a different kind of fucked-up now too, because his wings aren’t processing Aziraphale’s touch any faster than his liver is working on the alcohol.

When Aziraphale’s gloved fingers card through his primaries, he realizes uncomfortably that he’d give up the first kind of drunk indefinitely if he could have this instead. He tries to be subtle about the way he shifts his hips against the bed, because skinny jeans are a special kind of hell in this situation, but Aziraphale tuts disapprovingly, so obviously he noticed. “Careful,” he warns. “I don’t want to pull on anything.”

If Aziraphale pulled on Crowley’s feathers, his brain would explode and leak out his ears. And that’s just for starters. “Nhhh,” Crowley says, hoping it sounds like agreement and not encouragement.

“Other side now. Fair warning.”

Crowley could really use a breather to go jerk off in Aziraphale’s bathroom, assuming he has one, but he’s aware he’s the one imposing on Aziraphale’s hospitality. And anyway, what would he even say? So he stays put, curling his hands into fists. He needs a distraction. Instead of thinking about Aziraphale’s hands in his feathers, maybe he can focus on something else.

Like the way Aziraphale’s knee presses against the inside of his thigh, for example.

Like the way Crowley can feel the heat of his body on the bare skin of his lower back.

Okay, maybe not one of those things. The feathers are safer.

Except it turns out the right wing is… ticklish.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale scolds the third time he jerks his wing forward, out of Aziraphale’s grasp. “What _can_ the matter be? Am I hurting you?”

“No,” Crowley gasps out, muscles twitching from his hip to his shoulder. “Sorry. I’ll be—” _Good_. No; no, he certainly won’t. “—behave.”

 _Not better!_ his hindbrain hisses furiously.

Aziraphale resumes his petting, and Crowley grits his teeth and bears it, though every touch now seems to scald him, that goodness that Aziraphale exudes seeping into his wings until it itches like a sunburn on the inside of his skin. This is madness. This is torment. This is—

He spasms uncontrollably, jerking his wing up and out of Aziraphale’s grasp and nearly striking him in the face. He can’t help the writhing, and it’s worse because once he starts the bed moves under him like a living thing, _bless_ his godforsaken liver—

“Crowley!” Aziraphale must have been unbalanced. There’s no other explanation for the roughness with which he grasps Crowley’s wing. His other hand lands firmly on the back of Crowley’s neck, pinning him firmly to the mattress. “For Heaven’s sake, _hold still_.”

Crowley whines, frozen, his cock furiously hard, his senses deserting him. “ _Fuck_ ,” he bites into the pillow, chest heaving with breaths he shouldn’t need. “Aziraphale. Angel.” His body is overwhelmed, overloaded; he feels like he might come untouched with the slightest encouragement. His voice breaks. “Show some mercy.”

Behind him, Aziraphale stops too, and silence creeps in.

 _Fuck_. Crowley’s ruined everything. Shocking it took this long, really. Panicked, he pulls his arms under him, preparing to stand. Where are his glasses? He needs them now. He knew he shouldn’t ask for this. He knew it was too much. Aziraphale can’t be expected to handle Crowley’s _feelings_ —

“My dear,” Aziraphale says, sounding quite serious, “I think you’d better sober up.” The pressure on the back of Crowley’s neck does not abate.

Crowley’s pulse thunders in his ears. Helpless to do otherwise, he squeezes his eyes shut and purges his body of alcohol.

Aziraphale squeezes his neck. It’s gently done, but the effect has Crowley sagging into the mattress like a puppet with cut strings. Without the haze of alcohol to protect him he feels laid bare, naked and vulnerable and terrified. Involuntarily, he shivers.

“Thank you.” Something rustles, and the light in the room dims; a moment later Crowley’s trembling stops as Aziraphale’s wings kiss his own. “Now,” Aziraphale says softly. “You asked me to show you mercy. But I think….” Crowley swallows, knows Aziraphale can feel it against his fingers. “I think that’s not the one you want.”

He pauses. “Is it?”

Crowley exhales, letting out a breath as he sinks deeper into the mattress. Here, now, at last, Aziraphale has given him permission to be honest. To go too fast. “No.” He doesn’t want mercy. He wants something else.

“All right, then. Hold _still_.”

Crowley does, with some help. Aziraphale keeps one hand on the back of his neck, steady and grounding. A second weight, pulsing with the thrum of Aziraphale’s power, pins his wing to the bedspread. Then Aziraphale’s gloved fingers card through his feathers again, methodical and slow. Only beyond the simple, factual grooming, Crowley feels something else. Aziraphale’s touch isn’t scalding him anymore. Instead, it’s building a different kind of heat, adding to the pressure in his cock. Every stroke of Aziraphale’s fingers through his plumage ratchets the coils of tension inside him tighter, until Crowley couldn’t grind himself into the bed if he wanted to, he’s so paralyzed with want. “Aziraphale,” he begs.

“Shh. Just the primaries left.”

Crowley’s eyes water, but Aziraphale takes his time. Three or four feathers left now, maybe, and Crowley shudders after each one. If Aziraphale’s hands can take him apart like this gloved, touching only his wings and the back of his neck, what might they feel like elsewhere? How else could he bring Crowley crashing to his ruin? Will he do it? Crowley has no earthly idea. He’d thought—he’d been so sure angels didn’t.

Of course, that’s never stopped Aziraphale before.

Aziraphale smooths down the final feathers, but the pressure on Crowley’s wing and the back of his neck doesn’t let up.

After a moment of this, of licking his lips, thirsty for more, of debating the merits of rutting against the comforter until he comes, finally, undone by Aziraphale’s touch and his unwavering attention, Crowley breaks. “Finished?” he asks, the word a dry rasp.

Aziraphale’s wings flutter down against his again, and he shifts his weight between Crowley’s thighs. For just a moment his hands disappear, only to return without the gloves. “You tell me, my dear.”

Crowley almost laughs, but it emerges as a groan. “I’ve been telling you for six thousand years!”

Aziraphale rubs his thumb in a minute circle under Crowley’s ear, over the snake tattoo. “So what difference will once more time make?”

The last of Crowley’s self-preservation crumbles. He wants to hold back. In six thousand years, he’s never been rewarded for speaking his mind on this. But it’s a new world, and Aziraphale is asking, and in six thousand years, Crowley has denied him nothing. “Please, angel.” The words shudder out of him, a murmur. A prayer. “I put myself in your hands. Do with me what you will.”

Aziraphale traces a finger from Crowley’s shoulder to his hip. “It’s a rather long list, I’m afraid.”

Something inside Crowley breaks open. Relief pours out, dissolving his bones, washing away the wreckage that might have held him back. “Have to start somewhere,” he suggests, and swoons when Aziraphale bends forward, his wings sweeping over Crowley’s, and presses a soft kiss to his bare shoulder.

Crowley doesn’t have time to process the sweetness of the gesture before Aziraphale slides his arm under Crowley’s, around his chest. His hand finds its way under Crowley’s crop top, palm pressing flat between Crowley’s nipples.

And then he sits up, pulling Crowley with him, into his lap, straddling Aziraphale’s thick thighs, his back to Aziraphale’s chest.

“This seems a good place.” Aziraphale offers this while holding Crowley precisely still, his fingers almost to Crowley’s throat. “Too fast?”

Oh, trust him to get cheeky _now._ “Aziraphale,” Crowley grits out, digging his fingers into the flesh of his own thighs, “kindly get on with it.”

Mercifully—or not—Aziraphale does. His unoccupied hand slides downward, until Crowley’s fly obligingly unbuttons and peels itself open.

Crowley’s wings shake.

“Like this?” Aziraphale asks, and takes his cock out.

Crowley’s mouth forms a silent O.

It won’t take long. Aziraphale’s hand is hot and slick, and his mouth on Crowley’s neck does half the work. And then he slides his hand up farther, until he can tilt Crowley’s head just so. “Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs against his lips. “Let me show you.”

Crowley nods senselessly, fingers clutched in the fabric of Aziraphale’s pajama trousers now, lips parted.

The sweep of Aziraphale’s tongue is so pure it should blister his mouth, but it only stings, a fleeting pain quickly swallowed by pleasure. It blazes through him, consuming, and suddenly Crowley _can_ feel it. It’s old and deep, broken but joyful, and it’s _his_ ; it calls his name. He chases it into Aziraphale’s mouth, presses his palm to Aziraphale’s face.

Aziraphale rubs his thumb over the head of Crowley’s cock. _Do you see?_ he asks.

Crowley shudders, flooded with it, and knows Aziraphale can hear his answer.

When he comes, Aziraphale devours his helpless moan.

It takes several lifetimes for Crowley’s heartbeat to return to normal. To remember how to hold the pieces of himself together. In the meantime Aziraphale does it for him, arms and wings wrapping him tight.

Crowley’s new knowledge settles into his body, writes itself into every cell, carves its name into the very soul of him. He spent six thousand years convinced he’d never have it. And now suddenly he knows, with bone-deep certainty, that he will never again go without.

 _Oh God_ , Crowley thinks, and doesn’t take it back. “Aziraphale,” he says urgently. “Let me up.”

Immediately Aziraphale lets him go. Before Crowley can lament the loss he tucks his own wings away and clumsily turns around.

Aziraphale still has his wings out. He’s lost the tartan dressing gown and nightcap, so it’s just the striped pajamas now, which makes him look even softer. His eyes are very kind, and his face… Crowley knows that expression. That’s _oh, thank you_ , and _have a picnic, dine at the Ritz_ ; it’s _a little bit of a good person_. It’s _to the world_.

Crowley swallows hard. The glasses have never been any good for hiding, not from Aziraphale, but they let him pretend. He can stop pretending now. Aziraphale won’t ask him to do it anymore.

But the words won’t come.

Instead he offers kisses: Aziraphale’s fingers, the inside of his wrist. And then his mouth, his hand gentle on Aziraphale’s cheek.

And then Crowley thinks: I do have words for this. Or I did once.

“Crowley?”

He smiles, knowing it for the soft thing it is, and leans their foreheads together. “It is an ever-fixed mark”—his voice cracks, but it’s too late for an attack of nerves now—"that looks on tempests, and is never shaken.”

“ _Dearest_.” Aziraphale must know more than he’s let on these past four hundred years, because he only turns his head to press his mouth to Crowley’s palm. “I did wonder, you know, how many of those sonnets you had a hand in.”

Crowley smooths down a feather across Aziraphale’s radius. “You weren’t ready to hear it from me. But I couldn’t keep silent, even then.”

“I’m afraid I have some catching up to do in that regard.”

Crowley thinks of that wash of heat, the scald of it, the waves that scoured his insides and wrote their truth on the firmament of his being. He thinks of the shape of Aziraphale’s earthly body and all the other catching up they can accomplish, and this whole new world to do it in.

He thinks of the glitter now ground into Aziraphale’s very old, very soft tartan bedspread, and knows the infernal stuff will still be there in six thousand more years.

And so will this.

Their noses brush again as he leans in to steal another kiss. But first, he confesses: “I look forward to it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Now with [bonus art](http://sunshineandchemistry.tumblr.com/post/186799755079/hes-a-six-thousand-something-year-old-demon-whos) by [sunshineandchemistry](http://sunshineandchemistry.tumblr.com) on Tumblr!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] indelible](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20311729) by [Podfixx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Podfixx/pseuds/Podfixx)




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